[h1]Russia[/h1] [h2]Moscow[/h2] Ullanhu was stirred awake. He looked out the window to see that the sun was barely up over the horizon. A foggy, cloudy mist hung over Moscow, and Vasiliy hung over him. Unspeaking, the Chinese agent rolled out of bed and got dressed. Withdrawn, with his mouth taped shut, Vasiliy moved to the other-room to prepare. Though his head was still full of an early morning fuzz that eclipsed his proper thought, the Mongol knew well enough what was happening today. He forced his arms through the heavy sleeves of his agent's black coat and walked into the main room fully dressed. With the straight expression of the ready surgeon, he looked up at Vasiliy sitting at the table, loading a semi-automatic pistol and counting his spare magazines. “Let's get this done.” Ullanhu said in a low voice. Vasiliy nodded with full acknowledgment. He tucked the handgun under his suit as he rose to his feet, loading the spare rounds into hidden pockets underneath his western-style suit coat. In this moment, the young agent (for once) looked less like the boy Ullanhu had met and more like the soldier he was. His face was gaunt and solid, still and unwavering like a rock, as they walked out into the putrid gray halls of the apartment they had adopted. They left their safe-house behind and passed onto the foggy streets in the interior of Moscow. Ullanhu had not gotten to see much of the city. It was from the safety of the window that the Chinese agent had beheld the large circular city, with its networks of ring roads and radiating main thoroughfares that gave the city the layout of a wagon wheel. Clusters of romantic church steeples rose up, among the blocks of late 19th century bricked buildings, or dwarfed in the midst of mid-century high-rises, who's taller apartments and offices were built to compliment the pride felt in Russia about its heritage. It was from the safety of that apartment window that he had looked down at the edge of Europe. He realized what he saw was not the methodical planning of a nation trying to prove its own modernity in the most brash way possible, with as much steel as it could muster. It was a city that sat at the pivot of Russia, and epitomized its national identity. It richly straddled its old and new identity in defiance of Russia's new national character; teetering on the precipice towards anarchy, but failing to recognize that. They slipped through a checkpoint manned by grueling, butcher-faced Polish paramilitaries. Ullanhu watched the graying stone of the once vibrant edifices of urban Moscow. He thought to himself that this would be the last time he might ever see a European city. When they rode out to establish themselves for their major plot, he might not return from beyond the Urals. He managed a passing look at his unlikely partner. Vasiliy looked ahead with a deadened face. The Russian's features were pulled gaunt as he handled the steering wheel with the stiffness of a puppet. Ullanhu knew that look of finality; it told him that the two of them had dove over the edge. At any time up until now, they could have given up. Vasiliy, if he wished, could have fled to Novogorod and traded his allegiance to Radek. Ullanhu could have abandoned the mission all together, made his way back into China, and reported Jun dead; he had heard so little from his former partner that he could only assume much. But both men's loyalty was proven now. Without threat of a gun to the head, they were to throw themselves upon the spears of the enemy, and to make off with the most powerful man in the Republic. They passed over the Moskva river and headed north-east. ----------------------- By the time they reached their destination, the sun had risen enough that the historic Russian capital was beginning to stir awake. The mist had dispersed and left behind only a glistening sheet of sweat on the concrete, rocks, timber, and glass. Sitting in the middle of an empty parking lot, Vasiliy killed the engine, and it's deep rumble fell to a sharp sleepy silence. He sat with his hands held tight on the steering wheel, staring ahead. “This, I be back to.” he spoke stiffly. Ullanhu looked out the car windows. The scene outside was little more but a empty car park with a concrete dome at its middle. He noted they were parked in just the right way so that the gaping maw of the concrete egg shell was directly facing the car. It was no more than perhaps fifteen meters away. All around their position, sleepy wooden apartments stood over narrow roads, their windows dark with curtains drawn shut. “So, you think your plan will hold up?” Ullanhu asked. He couldn't claim that he wasn't nervous. In fact the whole of his being was knotted and he was sure that he sounded just as tense as he felt. His hands and arms hung heavy and numb at his sides, and he twiddled his thumbs on his lap. “Da.” Vasiliy quivered. Ullanhu looked over at him and saw he was shivering, “I just need prepare.” he laughed nervously. Taking a deep inhaling breath he beat his hand on the the steering wheel. “Keys.” he said briskly, throwing onto Ullanhu's lap the scratched brass ignition and door keys, and he jumped when they landed softly in his lap. “If I is not back in hour half, then I is compromised. Leave city, mission is fail. Back to China you go, ok?” Ullanhu scooped up the keys and nodded. Vasily looked like he had seen ghosts; his face was pale and stretched. He hoped dearly he could regain his composure as he opened the door to step out. “I be fine.” he managed to say, “I will be fine.” he repeated in his native Russian, reigning his confidence back to him. He slammed the door shut and Ullanhu scooted over the bench seat into the driver's side, where he watched his Russian partner stroll to the nearby bus stop. With any luck, the buses wouldn't be late. Sliding down into the seat and preparing to look as if he was napping, Ullanhu watched Vasiliy through the rear-view mirrors. The Russian looked something like a phantom. He barely seemed to exist among the old men who filed in alongside him, waiting for the bus. Within moments the bus arrived. The hiss of its breaks was muffled from the glass and metal skin of the car. It stopped at the isolated bus-stop and let in the gathered small crowed. With a diesel roar, it puttered off down the road and disappeared. And again, Ullanhu was utterly alone. He began counting down the minutes. ----------------------- Vasiliy could feel the rumble of the bus under his feet. They tumbled through the narrow streets of Moscow, and he watched the city, where he had once grown up, pass by through the greasy, faded windows where the stains of weather, sun, and human use had baked a frosty layer of permanent filth into the glass. His gut turned in his belly. He drummed his fingers across his legs. His nerves had him. Passing into the center of Moscow, the structure of the city began to take on a much older glow. There was a resilient regalia to the stone and stucco faces of the buildings and shops that remained after the Imperial decline. But all too often, the bus would saunter past windows that were boarded up. In a manner of thinking, the concept of stealing off with the president of the Republic and holding him as hostage was validated, considering how Russia's Third Rome had declined. But for this, it didn't quite absolve him of his lingering anxieties. For all the infiltration he had done to get within the Republican congress enough to report their agenda to Makulov, and for all the efforts breaking into the ranks of the local military, and even Yekaterinburg's police, the mission against the president felt like pennies to the prize he and Ullanhu were to go after. His mind raced with the frenetic energy of a frantic dormouse as he chased past the doubts. He could use more men. He could have possibly spent more time. Perhaps he should have found a way to bring the president out of the city; to get him into the country and separate him from his guard. But he couldn't have more men; he would lose subtlety and there would be more factors to failure. He couldn't get more time; the progress of the Chinese was cutting into that. As well, he wouldn't be able to get Alexander Belyakov away from the Kremlin. All the evidence agreed that Belyakov had been elected on Polish funds and his guard was the same Polish-born para-military outfit that saw to the city's security. Belyakov's removal was not so much a means to end the war quickly, but a way to remove Polish influence and to force Krakow to severe ties with the Russian region. Vasiliy was certain that Makulov didn't tell Ullanhu this; the Chinese didn't need to know. Though Vasiliy had not been told either, he could clue himself in based on the intelligence that he knew, and the wider picture he had now. It was now just a manner of reaching Belyakov before his Polish security detail could get too close for the routine office duties. Passing to the gates of the Kremlin, he began to concoct his lie. He needed a good one to move the president off the routine path so that he could take control. The bus stopped, and he stepped out. Vasiliy walked in the shadows along the edge of Red Square. He passed towering baroque buildings, the washed vanilla-white walls of the Upper Trading Rows building, and the darkened offices that flanked its impressive arched face and tall narrow windows. Immense and long in its dimensions, the square's dark bricks glowed a golden red in the rising sun as a clear overhead sky started to flourish. Flanking it either ends, the indomitable St.Basil's Cathedral stood at the head of the empty square, its round onion and turnip-shaped domes pointing up into the sky. Crooked golden crosses crowned each point and gave an air of the last and only remaining splendor in the city. At the far end, the spiked red crown of the Imperial museum stood as if in solemn mourning to the statue of the emperor outside its front doors, powerfully suggesting the Tzar's equality to the bronze statue of the Rus warriors out front of Basil's. But even as far as Vasiliy was from it (he was approaching Spasskaya Tower), he knew that statue was the last to be erected for the late czar Nicholas. Only a brief checking in of his credentials stood between Vasiliy and the Kremlin proper. The guards up front looked sleepy, leaning over scratched wooden tables in the vacant interior of the tower. Over cups of warm tea, they glanced at the badge Vasiliy had thrown to them before handing it back with as little energy as they could afford. He now had employee clearance. Within the walls, the Kremlin became much more than a location. Guarded behind its towering red 15th century walls was something of a city within a city. A nest of over a dozen large offices, serving as not only the Moscow residence of the Czars, but also the functions of states when it was not in Sankt-Petersburg. Glowing private churches offered weight to the old regime's power being vested by God, and Russia's succession as the Empire of Rome. It was a village of God and of royalty at the heart of a city of God. A fortress that sat as the axle of the world guarded behind bloodied walls. The inside of the Kremlin was just drearily awake while the rest of Moscow was only now waking up. There were no cars to drive its streets; those that did were clearly military. Public servants and attendees to the president's office and to the Republican command strolled along the side of the narrow roads under the protection of garden trees on one side or the imposing offices of the Republican state on the other. Vasiliy had to make quick time, and he picked up his pace as he passed Ivanovskaya Square and the massive bell and cannon displayed there. He slowed to a brisk jog and hugged up against the presidential palace. The door gave no protest as he bustled into its opulent interior. Vasiliy's feet echoed in the towering cavern-halls of the palace, with its rich interior of frosted white and shimmering white marble, and its glossy reflective floors, the presidential palace was a structure of high decadence. It was filled with a still air where suited attendants and secretaries shuffled along the carpeted corridors under the buzzing yellow lights of crooked eagle-claw wall lamps. On his search for the president, he shifted between a world netted in gold leaf, ebony and pearl, and into the heavenly frosty corridors of its being and tall vaulted cathedral ceilings. Ultimately, he found him. Alexander Belyakov was a well built man with a heavy frame, and a wrinkled balding head, which looked between officials and representatives of across the Republic. The company that held his attention looked sparse at its best; a few idle stragglers seeking his ear to finish the night's last drawn breath. Vasiliy slowed to a walk, and fought his breath to the ground. He calmed the fidgeting feeling at the back of his mind, trying with the effort of a bear to bring a reasonable collected air. Vasiliy entered the loose group who sought his attention. And as the squabbling of hens subsided enough that he could speak, he grabbed his attention, settling on his lie. “President Belyakov.” he spoke up, speaking in a high voice as to catch his gaze, but not so much that he yelled his name. The heavy slab of a man turned to Vasiliy's direction. A pair of frame-less bifocals rested at the tip of a heavy hooked nose. The president's gaze was long and unsympathetic, falling on Vasiliy with a surprising weight in his calm blue eyes. He folded his hands, waiting for the agent to speak. “Sir, Gregoyovich to see you.” said Vasiliy. The president's eyes exploded with a shocked light. All at once, he straightened his back and widened his shoulders. It put on him as much a weight as was on Vasiliy's shoulders, and he could see the sudden glint of uncertain anxiety deep in the President's gaze. He became less expectant, and almost more afraid. “Pray tell, where?” he asked impatiently, walking in close to Vasiliy. He wasn't trying to impose on the young man, but to keep the words spoken as close to the two of them as possible. The officers that had so shortly ago crowded around him dispersed indignantly, grumbling under their breaths about how quickly they had been dismissed. “In your office, President sir.” Vasiliy falsely reported. Gregoyovich was the President's Chief of Intelligence, at least in an unofficial capacity. Some said Belyakov had appointed the Czarist era army officer to keep an eye on the Congress' own spymaster. But there was an unspoken knowing – even to Vasiliy, the newest of aids – that there was something more dangerous going on. “Of course...” Belyakov stuttered nervously, he turned on his heels and began walking down the marbled hall, “Tell, was there anything important he wished to discuss?” he asked, turning back. Gregoyovich's name had put the fear of God into the man's heart. Vasiliy had to withhold his cards for now, but Belyakov's queen was easily becoming his pawn. He followed the president, “Only it was a matter of grave importance.” he said. “Of course, of course.” Belyakov stammered. He began running. Vasiliy followed. Either Belyakov did not care, or did not know Vasiliy was trailing after him. The two hastened through halls with high cathedral ceilings, and into galleries where the walls shone with fiery amber hues and brutal golds. The morning light weakly found its way through heavy tangerine-orange curtains, filling marbles halls with a rich warm glow. And though many of the lights flickered in the palatial splendor, there was a constant light from golden chandeliers and gilded niches of light. Red carpet was like a road to where they needed to be. Quaint tea-tables, parked along the side of the hall, sat empty. They served less as functional pieces of furniture and more as artistic décor, with worn crimson velvet seats, and both gold and brass studded frames. The hastened trip stopped at a set of heavy mahogany double doors. The deep earthly darkness of the doors contrasted so much with the gold and whites of the wall they almost glowed. Belyakov stopped, and adjusted the collar of his suit. If he had not known Vasiliy was with him, he found out when he turned. But the President did not seem angry. Instead, he gave him a knowing nod. “I shan't be long, and then it will be the day as usual.” he told him, opening the door to the offices. Vasiliy meant to follow, but with a thud, the doors closed in front of him. He stood with his hands held out, and the corner of his suit jacket tucked into the crack between the doors. He gave the president a second. Then he slowly put his hands on the handles and threw the lock. The coat, which had been jamming the mechanism, fell to his side, and he stepped into the private office. Belyakov stood in the middle of the room, stricken and confused by the absence of any mysterious cronies. The door slammed shut behind Vasiliy, and the lock engaged. The noise clearly caught the Russian President's attention. His face dropped slack, and his mouth hung open as the blood rushed from his face. Gawping with the complexion of a ghost, he starred down the barrel of Vasiliy's handgun as it hung before his face. “T-There was no one...” he stammered, choked with shock. “Comrade President, get on the floor.” Vasiliy demanded. “T-there was no one and you fooled me! Cyka blyatt!” he protested horrified, “Do you lack loyalty?” he decried. “Comrade, president, just get on the floor and fold your hands behind your head.” “Y-you...” Belyakov moaned, “I failed didn't I?” “You will have failed if you don't get on the ground!” Vasiliy nearly shouted. His heart beat its head against his chest. It thrummed in his ears so loud he could barely hear the protesting and whimpering of the President, who had dropped to his knees. The firing of a hundred instincts told Vasiliy to do a hundred things at once. Kill the president now, check the room, hold his position. Put the bag on his head. Reaching into a coat pocket, Vasiliy pulled out a black bag. Folded, it would have looked like handkerchief for a dinner party. But as it masked the president's head, and as the ties were drawn tight around his fleshy neck, the hood it was became known. So far, things were going too well. Grabbing the president by the shoulder, he pulled him to his feet and jammed the handgun into his sides. “You're going to follow my moves.” he whispered into his ears, “I do not mean to kill you, I have a use for you. But I may hurt you, I may hurt you a lot if I need to!” he promised, and his words hissed from his mouth like a snake as he watched the door, and pulled the incapacitated president across the room and into the bathroom. “You don't know what you're doing.” the president pleaded as he was dragged, “You're going to ruin everything. You're going to ruin Russia! Our last chance for restoration, for salvation, for a true revolution.” “Shut up.” Vasiliy hissed. Outside, the tapping of passing feet echoed in through the door. Vasiliy froze. Belyakov seized the moment. “HELP! ASSASSIN!” he screamed. The sound of footfalls stopped, Belyakov screamed more, fighting Vasiliy's grip. “HELP ME!” he roared. Panicked chattering and a worried ruckus trickled through the door. As Belyakov grunted and fought Vasiliy, the individuals outside grew louder. Someone began banging on the door and trying to throw open its locks. Vasiliy's hopes crashed at the sound, and he had to move fast. He had to move desperately. Lifting the pistol from the president's side, he clubbed the man against the head. It knocked him cold. Vasiliy pulled the heavy set man further into the ivory and glossy bone-white bathroom. He hit the hidden button, and the sink slid away, revealing a dark, damp passage into the escape tunnel below. Vasiliy wasn't about to give the President comfort as he pulled him down the steps. Concrete stairs nipped and bit at the man's fat ass and lumpy legs as they descended into the darkened, red-lit tunnels. As alarms blared above, Vasiliy negotiated the president into the private escape car. The muffled distant alarms and the frantic anxiety that crashed through his body blurred into a single nauseating symphony as he scrambled through the darkened cab for the train car's controls. In the dim red light, Vasiliy could hardly read anything, and a new demon of doubt reared its head over him in the darkness of the train car. He didn't know how to start this thing. “Shit shit shit,” he panicked over the control modules. Darkened buttons and switches filled the metal panel, their purpose and meaning hidden from him in the clear shadows of the softly blinking and fading emergency lights. He could hear more energy from upstairs as the banging on the door became a heavy ramming. He had to do something, so started to hit buttons. At first nothing happened but lights soon illuminated the car with their dull amber glow. And he could read and see. He had hit the electrical start, and the stagnant batteries of the car were groaning to life. “Ignition, ignition!” Vasiliy shouted to himself. Belyakov groaned on the ground behind him. Time was running out for him and the last grains of sand were becoming countable in the hour glass. Stabbing blindly, Vasiliy found it. An enormous hum filled the cathedral tube of the underground escape rail when the engines started. A cloud of acrid ozone spewed into the air from behind them, and Vasiliy hit the acceleration lever. The train car was lurching down the tracks. With the slow rhythmic tapping of the wheels over the tracks, they thundered off into the darkness under the blare of frantic sirens. It was a full storm that he had to sail out of, and holding onto the dusty brass interior of the car, he rode it like a pirate villain. ----------------------- Ullanhu was shook awake by the low, distant whine of sirens and alarms. Grumbling, he sat up in the driver's seat of Vasily's car. As the morning drew later, the interior had grown warmer, and he had woken several times from naps to lower the windows. Outside his seat, Moscow had moved on around him as if he wasn't really there. But when he watched, he noticed that no one was using the metros. Maybe at times, small crowds of people would hang around the terminal, or in the shade of the egg-shell canopy. But these weary looking people did not seem to actually use the terminal. The idea that no one was putting the city's underground rail system to use was a surprise. But he supposed if they were going to use it for their plot, Vasiliy must have known these rails wouldn't be in use, for whatever the reason. But now these sirens were a change, and obviously from the reactions of the people in the streets, it was not expected. Though clearly not in a panic, the civilians were startled, and they turned to the source of the alarms that were blaring across the city. Then, tearing through the streets, came the armored trucks and police cars. Something sank in Ullanhu's heart as he looked on and saw the armed response to some great happening. And he knew that there shouldn't be anything else going on besides their presidential abduction. Someone had to of caught on to Vasiliy. A grave worrying came washing into his heart, and he slid forward, pulling the car seat into an upright position. The panic and concern that was storming the city soon lapped at his toes. He put the keys in the car's ignition and fired up the engine. With a devilish roar, it spurned to life immediately and snarled idle while they keys were still between the Mongol's fingers. He had never noticed how rough and powerful this bulbous twisted model of a car was until his panicked hands grabbed hold of it's steering wheel. His heavy gaze fixed itself on the bowels of the metro terminal. He was consumed by a trembling panic. Was he to break away now? Would that be abandoning his comrade? The thoughts, as racing as they were, became the anchor that strapped him to that spot, watching the grumbling shadow of the pie under that sheltering dome. It kept him there until Vasiliy pulled himself from those steps. There was a heavy-set, hooded Russian restrained in his arms. Vasiliy was shouting and waving a handgun in the air. “Open the doors!” Those words unglued him, and he lunged over the bench-seat and threw open the passenger door. It swung out on energetic springs. Vasiliy shoved the captured president inside and dived in after. By then, the civilians on the street had already seen what was happening, and they were making noise. “What happened?” Ullanhu shouted in Russian as Vasiliy slammed the door shut. “Unexpected guests. Gun it!” his partner responded in Russian. His voice rattled and his tongue jumped and jangled in his mouth like loose bolts. He was in no mind to try and flex his Chinese muscle. With a gather crowd of spectators (and possible martyrs), Ullanhu wasn't willing to stay. With a heavy groan, the car's engine drank the gas Ullanhu poured for it when he slammed down the gas pedal. A volcanic scream erupted from under the hood as it thundered forward and shuddered over the meridian between parking and road. Screams from the crowd sounded. He burned through the thin circle. A dull thump suggested he had hit at least one bystander with the corner of the car, but he was too transfixed on the road ahead to worry about that now. “North! North along the main road!” Vasiliy screamed as Ullanhu tore across the plaza. He pointed out across to a wide-set of lanes. The adrenaline that coursed through Ullanhu's veins numbed him as he rocketed the car over the gutters, side-walks, and polite dividers that had once before created a sense of order. But it was an order widely defied by the Mongolian, and he drove with a central focus as he crashed through bushes and breezed past cars. A part of him felt left behind, and it chased after them, flailing its arms and screaming. Then, with a thunderous bump, they spun out onto the road. ([url=https://youtu.be/64vDOJlDOWQ]Action teim[/url]) The tires squealed with the horrendous note of slaughtered pigs. The car swung to the side, and the force pulled the agent sharply to the side and buried his shoulder into the ancient fat of the whimpering president. “You're doing good!” Vasiliy shouted encouragingly. His Russian rose to a sharp croak against his lips as he turned in his seat to watch out the back window. Down the narrow road, the lights of pursuing police cars flashed against the depressed wood paneling of low apartment buildings, and the sirens whisked through the bowing boughs of road-side trees. Ullanhu looked up and saw them in the rear mirror. A feeling of dread laid itself down over him. Its weight felt so heavy that his foot slammed further into the floor, and the car engine gave such a roar that it sounded as if it were on the brink of exploding. He could imagine flames shooting out of the exhaust and from under the hood. They charged ahead, without fear of or respect for the doldrum traffic already occupying the narrow roads. Racing over the road with the cry of sirens and lights in his eyes and ears, the world blurred to a constant goal. The desperation to evade pursuit became the only thing to him. It was pure blurring survival that became his person at that moment. It went with him as he sped over ridges, over railways, and into the medieval outer fringe of northern Moscow. The sounds of the sirens and the lights became so blurred that they were nothing, Vasiliy's voice was the only whispering truth. “Turn right!” he ordered. He snapped the steering wheel to the side and, with a loud bang and a bump, it rocketed off the road, skating suddenly down a long gravel trail. Trees along the road-side hung their branches thick over the road. Through the tunnel of trees, light was filtered in broken shards. He bumped along. His jaw jittered. “They dare not shoot us! We have president!” Vasiliy cackled at his side, he sounded ravenous and enraged with the hilarity of the moment. But, to Ullanhu, he was demented, and his voice rose and fell with the rhythm and rise of sirens. “Break to the left, comrade! Hurry!” Vasiliy pleaded, “This beast can take it!” Possessed by the Russian's command, Ullanhu did as he willed. He spun the steering wheel sharply to the side. The car broke into a sharp sliding drift as it struggled to find purchase in the loose sand and dirt of the road. Through the windshield, he watched the road turn to woods, and the intersection Vasiliy had intended them to take pass them by. Suddenly, they were facing back to Moscow, and toward the procession of police and armored cars that had followed them. Far above the dancing boughs of the forest branches, he saw the shine of a helicopter hovering overhead. He wondered if they had machine guns. Vasiliy threw open the window, shouting orders to drive. The tires spun in the rocks, and they pounced forward as the Russian agent fired off a staccato barrage of gunfire from his handgun. The report was answered by a barrage of heavy fire that shattered the rear windows of the car, the shards of glass exploding behind them and the sheering screams of metal piercing even above the roar of the engine. As Ullanhu turned onto and sped through the intersection, the roar of sirens came back to the agent's reality as a rogue car struck the rear-bumper of their getaway vehicle. Vasiliy loaded another magazine into his pistol, slamming it in with a sharp click. “We do good!” he laughed, continuing his barrage of rabid encouragement. The President whimpered, crying in shock and fear between them. Ullanhu looked to the side and saw him clutching the back of his lowered head as faint signs of blood trickled between his hands. They again were racing down the narrow tracks of a forested road that ran true and straight, like an arrow, into the far distance. The engine roar mixed and danced with the gusts of wind that whipped through the inside via the gaping holes where the windows had been. Unseating himself and turning to face the rear, Vasiliy rose his handgun and fired shots down the road. The pace of the fire was neither as erratic nor as fast as it had been before. The timely, slow shots rang above the engine with the force of a clanging bell as the mechanism rose and fell on each bullet casing, sending a new round down the road. With each freshly exhausted magazine, he reached for a new one and renewed the process, taking shots at the Russian pursuit when they came too close. Between tense glances down the road and into the mirror, Ullanhu had little time to absorb where their enemies were coming from or how close they were. It must have come with the ring of the pistol, where metal twisted on metal. A whipping crashing, like a bursting mortar shell, happened behind them. “We are hardly out of the woods yet!” Vasiliy cheered when their pursuers crashed together in a smoldering pile of metal. Ullanhu stole a look through the rear view and, horrified, beheld the monumental pile of debris behind them. As they sped away, rifle fire popped and clanged. None found a mark, and they sped out of range of the shooters. Ullanhu's heart chased his breath through his chest, and his knuckles glowed bone-white against the black steering wheel. Glistening shards of glass lay haphazardly across the dashboard, blown back when someone opened fire on them. And by the tickle on his cheek, he was sure a bolt of upholstery and been torn loose and was brushing the side of his face. But he was stunned and numbed. His hands rattled on the steering wheel. He could do nothing but look forward, crashing through the overgrown dirt road. “We're going to breach the outer Moscow ring-road, be careful.” Vasiliy noted. This wasn't the end of the chase, only a reprieve. His Russian partner took the time to check his magazine. “I have four bullet left.” he reported, “Let's not get in any more shootouts.” “Ah-a-ah... o-o-ok.” stuttered Ullanhu. He wasn't in any position or ability to speak as they came up over a short hill. Then suddenly they were airborne. Alexander Belyakov screamed like a child, and Vasiliy roared in protest. They became weightless. Reaching for the steering wheel, the Russian borrowed control from across the lap of the president and yanked it to the side. The dark hull of a armored car grew in the side windows with the long barrel of a machine gun pointed up at them. With a metal-rending crash, the wheels came down over the cab, and the still-spinning wheels gripped and screamed off the thick hull of the armored vehicle as it turned and regained pace. Ullanhu was thrown against the wheel, and Vasiliy had been slammed against the dash. His hands still gripping the wheel, he snapped it to the other side and the car. turned immediately away from an oncoming tank, and rammed across the meridian of the highway. They shot through the pastel wooden barricades that had been thrown up in a desperate attempt to contain the kidnappers. Splinters of wood clouded the windshield as riot police dove to the side of the suicidal car. The Mongolian was in a lost daze when they crossed the highway and onto another forested service drive. By now, the engine was screaming in pain. Silver metallic smoke streamed from under the hood and bulbous vent. Branches and bushes brushed and scratched against the side. With eyes covered in the blood trickling from his cut brow, Vasiliy blindly kept the car straight through blurred vision. Ullanhu himself felt blood trickling from his nose as he pushed himself off the wheel. He felt too numb to feel the pain, or the fear anymore. Everything felt as if it were a dream. Drowsily he asked: “Vasiliy?” “Da?” “Why are we slowly driving off the road?” The scratching and grinding of branches and overgrowth dragging against the doors became heavier, and the bumping over rough terrain became even more dramatic. From under the hood, the silver veil of smoke was growing hotter and heavier. “We're going to go by foot I think.” Vasiliy said in Russian, “Get ready to jump.” Ullanhu wasn't about to protest. The seat belt released from his chest and stomach with a sleepy click. Vasiliy grabbed the president by the shoulders as Ullanhu slowed the car to full stop. “Do not turn it off, keep it running.” Vasiliy ordered, throwing open the doors. He stepped out onto the wooded trail. Not too distant, the sounds of sirens and confused shouts echoed through the trees. Belyakov blubbered and murmured, childlike all the way, crying with every slight push against his shoulders. The man was clearly shaken, and it reduced his masculinity to a pile of smoldering ashes. Ullanhu would not be surprised if he had pissed himself as he limped out of the door. Vasiliy threw the president to the ground as he began pulling gas canisters and an ammo box from the trunk. “Take him and start making distance.” he grumbled. He looked nervously down the road as he began throwing the contents of the trunk through the broken windows. Ullanhu hobbled over and dragged the president up off the mossy ground. Throwing an arm over his shoulders, he hurried off into the bush. He looked back behind him as the Russian slammed the trunk shut. There was a hand grenade in his hands. Turning and nodding to Ullanhu, he threw it into the window and raced away from the car. Ullanhu's vision was filled with blinding fire as the car exploded into a ball of flame and twisted metal. Vasiliy dove at him, pulling him to the ground just before a spear of metal pierced the forested air. Smoldering ashes rose into the branches. A massive column of flame erupted from the busted and dented remnants of the imperial sports car, scorching and lapping against the foliage. “And now we run.” said Vasiliy, pulling Ullanhu and the President up to their feet.